


esto a ti te va a calentar (que?)

by wordstruck



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Blowjobs, Daddy Kink, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, dj otabek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 18:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10996926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: “Someone’s all worked up,” he taunts, although it’s marred by a hitch in his breath. Inside Otabek’s pants, his hand twists, slides slow and torturous. Otabek’s only answer is a grunt as his hips jerk forward, his teeth press into Yuri’s throat. Yuri tips his head as far forward as it can go when Otabek still has him by the hair, nips at Otabek’s lower lip.“That all you got,Daddy?”// because there's never enough hot DJ Beka in the world





	esto a ti te va a calentar (que?)

**Author's Note:**

> DJ Beka? DJ Beka. 
> 
> This is loosely based off part of an Otayuri WIP I have + also based on a conversation I had with Krys about Yuri being in the club while Otabek works and distracting Beka to hell + kawaiilo-ren’s DJ Beka art because ??? hot damn. I like to call this the “I like stuffing all my kinks into one story” fic.
> 
> NOTE: similar to the Mafia!AU verse, both Yuri and Otabek are aged up. I put Yuri at about 19/20, which makes Otabek 23-ish. Yuri is still shorter than Beka tho, because I like it that way, so just imagine Beka’s taller than he actually is LMAO
> 
> Dom Beata is an actual club in St. Petersburg, but apart from the name I’m really not taking anything else from it. Lines with < indicate a text from Yuri, > mean a reply from Otabek. The title is taken from Gordita by Shakira, because apparently when I write Otayuri I switch over to Hispanic music.
> 
> (unbeta'd so you'll have to forgive me if limbs end up in weird places. if you spot something, let me know!)  
> feel free to hit me up on twitter at [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) and tumblr at [@vktr-nkfrv](https://vktr-nkfrv.tumblr.com) for more yuri!!! on ice (and haikyuu) AUs, HCs, and general yelling

* * *

 

Dom Beata is crowded. Granted, it’s a Friday night and university term has just ended, but Yuri Plisetsky still feels there’s entirely too many people in the club and it’s making him reconsider coming, just a little. The EDM is loud, the chatter is deafening, and the room smells of smoke and a lot of people.

After leaving his coat with reception, Yuri grits his teeth and slinks between people to reach the bar at the far end of the room. He keeps his head down, hair swinging forward to cover his face; he’d like to minimize recognition, if possible -- he doesn’t want word of his presence to reach Yakov, who will kick his ass six ways to Sunday, or worse, Mila, who will never let him live this down.

He makes it to the bar relatively unscathed, and plonks himself on a stool near the end with a huff. There’s just one reason he’s here instead of at home watching videos of today’s training, or at the studio running through drills over and over. The bartender acknowledges him with a little salute from where he’s preoccupied taking some orders, and Yuri gives a little wave in return.

A minute later and a rum and Coke is slid over to him, slick trail on the bartop. Yuri takes it gratefully, swigging liberally and trying to tune out the chatter around him. Then he glances up at the DJ booth -- still empty -- and takes out his phone.

< _ your set better be worth this   _

He closes WhatsApp, opens his Instagram, scrolls aimlessly. The Katsuki-Nikiforovs are currently in Hasetsu, thankfully, or Yuri probably wouldn’t have been able to come here. Mila is apparently having a night in with the hockey player she’s dating. Chris has posted a photo of his cat playing with one of his old skate costumes; Yuri grins and double taps to like. His phone buzzes.

> _ be nice, kitten  _

Yuri snorts, suppressing a smile around the rim of his glass. He’s about to reply when an uptick in noise from the dance floor draws his attention.

Otabek Altin is at the elevated booth, headphones on. The tinted glass partition partly shields the view, but Yuri recognizes the shirt he’s wearing -- a random gift Yuri had given a few months ago, charcoal gray fabric clinging tightly to Otabek’s arms and chest. Without any preamble, the EDM shifts to what Yuri recognizes as one of Otabek’s own mixes, a heavy beat that reverberates throughout the room.

Carefully, Otabek surveys the room, and Yuri keeps his eyes fixed on the DJ booth until the man spots him. He doesn’t have to move closer to know the look Otabek is giving him, wolfish and smugly satisfied. He tips his head back as he downs the rest of his drink, signals for another one. Waits.

 

Otabek glances across the club and sure enough, there Yuri is, in a seat at the bar and nursing what’s sure to be a rum and Coke. Otabek drinks him in, those long legs in black denim, the collar of his shirt falling open,  his long hair pulled back in a sloppy half-bun that just exposes his undercut.

He smirks. Of course the kitten is all dressed up tonight.

He settles into routine, adjusting the music, amping the bass and tweaking the equalizer. A couple of the regulars at his sets are trying to catch his attention, flashing him peace signs, and he waves back. But his gaze keeps drifting back to Yuri, who seems to be making casual conversation with someone at the bar. His teeth are bared in a grin and he’s throwing his head back, laughing. Otabek feels something hot and angry curl in his chest, until Yuri glances at him over the man’s shoulder and winks.

Well if he wants to play, Otabek is more than willing to indulge.

He holds Yuri’s gaze, beckons him over. Otabek can just make out the frown that forms on Yuri’s face, so he gestures again, pointing down at the DJ booth and mouthing the invitation.

_ Come here. _

Yuri hesitates, then smirks. He excuses himself from his companion (and Otabek doesn’t like the way the man’s gaze tracks Yuri’s ass while he moves) and picks his way through the crowd, sticking to the fringes of the dance floor. Otabek doesn’t take his eyes off Yuri until he’s reached the base of the DJ booth. When security looks up at him for confirmation, Otabek signals them to let Yuri in. Yuri climbs the short, narrow staircase awkwardly, still clinging to his drink. Otabek grins as he shifts over.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he shouts over the music when Yuri’s entered the booth; he means it to sound suave but at that volume, it’s a bit difficult.. 

In response, Yuri wrinkles his nose and shrugs lithe shoulders. “It’s too crowded down there,” he yells back petulantly, setting his drink down on an empty spot on the equipment counter. Otabek laughs and reaches out, draws him over. Yuri leans into his touch, too close and warm.

“It’s just you and me up here, though,” Otabek says, running an appreciative hand up Yuri’s back, under his shirt. Up close, he can see the sheen of sweat on Yuri’s skin, the flush from the heat and the alcohol. He also realizes that the shirt Yuri’s wearing is  _ his,  _ a deep maroon one that hangs loose off his torso, sliding off one shoulder to reveal the black strap of a tank top underneath.

Otabek stares at the contrast of red on Yuri’s skin; it makes him want to bite Yuri’s shoulder, right by the thin strip of black fabric underneath. His fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, slipping underneath to cup Yuri’s hip. The younger man is watching him coyly, tongue flicking over his lips.

But no. Otabek withdraws his hand, swallowing dryly. “Wanna give it a go?” he asks instead, tugging his headphones off his neck. There’s a flash of disappointment over Yuri’s face before he recovers himself, cocks an eyebrow.

“Why not?” Yuri muses, though Otabek sees the words more than hears them. Instead of taking the headphones, however, Yuri grabs Otabek’s wrists, using them to guide the headphones over his own ears. It brings them much closer together, almost chest to chest. Yuri’s hands are still cool from clutching his drink; the sensation makes Otabek shiver just a little.

It reminds Otabek of the little game they are playing, of how Yuri is dangerous in his own right.

Otabek clears his throat as subtly as he can while he shuffles them around so Yuri is standing in front of the mixers and the laptop, Otabek behind him. He reaches around, taking Yuri’s hands and guiding them to the brightly-lit buttons.

“Like this,” he murmurs into Yuri’s ear, the one not covered by a noise-cancelling muff. They change tracks to something with a headier bass beat. Yuri grins as he runs his fingers over the switches, the turntable. Otabek chances a quick kiss to the side of his neck, tasting salt and skin. Yuri tilts his head to the side, a silent invitation for more, but Otabek pulls back instead, just a bit.

He’s not going to let Yuri win that easily.

 

Yuri, however, has  _ plans.  _

He starts it subtle. He leans back against Otabek, closing his eyes and letting the beat overwhelm him. He can feel the dampness of Otabek’s skin, the rise and fall of his chest, and faintly, the thud of his heartbeat. Otabek’s hands stay maddeningly on his hips, unmoving, and Yuri is determined to get things going.

So Yuri starts to move, pushing further back, swaying his hips to the beat. His shirt slips lower, baring collarbones, all easy access and pale skin begging to be marked. His throat is exposed; his ass is pressed to Otabek’s crotch.

On his hips, Otabek’s hands clench and infuriatingly, stubbornly, hold him still.

(It isn’t that Otabek doesn’t want, because he does. He’s hyper-aware and hyper-attuned to the supple body pressed against his because of their proximity, to the ass backed up against his crotch. Yuri is cattish and a tease, an open flame, and Otabek likes to play with fire.)

There’s a smile on Yuri’s face, the coquettish one that always makes Otabek feel starved for his touch. He leans his head back against Otabek’s shoulder; one hand comes up to ghost over his undercut.

“I like this song,” Yuri murmurs, grinning wolfishly. Otabek hands hover over Yuri’s hips, shaking with the effort not to grab, to pull, to bruise. If anyone from the dance floor looked up, looked closely, they’d see exactly what Yuri is doing to him, and Otabek’s fingers shake from the effort to maintain control. Because Yuri loves making things difficult, loves to taunt and flirt, loves to wind Otabek up and see what drives him to distraction; Yuri is going to ruin him with those hips and that ass and the way his teeth sink into plush, pink lips.

_ “Yura,” _ Otabek warns, hoarsely. “Kitten--” He’s not sure what he’s going to say next but he doesn’t get to come up with anything, because Yuri just grins wider, baring his teeth, and pushes his ass back against the hardness that’s Otabek’s cock under his jeans. And Otabek is only human; he has his own wants, his limits, and Yuri Plisetsky is his destruction personified. Otabek wants to kiss, wants to bite, wants to  _ take  _ because Yuri looks like a feast in the dark DJ booth, the flashing lights from outside highlighting the sheen of sweat on his skin and the slick of drink on his lip.

And then Yuri whirls around, lips a hair’s breadth away from Otabek’s, eyelashes fluttering. “Don’t be obvious,” he breathes out, and his hands move lower, skimming down Otabek’s chest. The older man has all of a few moments before Yuri is on his knees in the DJ booth, open mouth pressed to the fly of his jeans.

This is dangerous. This is insane. This is hot as hell and Otabek feels like he’s been set alight.

Eager fingers are scrabbling at his zipper even as Yuri exhales heat through Otabek’s jeans onto his cock. He’s very quickly losing all sense of reason at the sight of Yuri on his knees in the middle of the club with only the counters and glass partition of the DJ booth to shield him, moaning around the bulge in the fabric and scraping his nails down Otabek’s clothed thighs. It’s filthy, dizzyingly hot.

But no. Biting back a groan, Otabek hauls Yuri to his feet with no gentleness, shoves him back against the counters. His hands are braced on either side of Yuri’s hips; he’s panting into Yuri’s exposed ( _ waiting to be marked  _ ) shoulder. Yuri’s thigh slips between both of his, pressing in deliciously.

“ _ Kitten, _ ” Otabek forces through gritted teeth, low and heated. Yuri stills, shivering.

Otabek muffles a groan into the side of Yuri’s neck, then relents, just a little, bites under that pointed chin. “Move,” he rasps, shoving Yuri away from the equipment and towards the stairs. He can just hear Yuri’s smug laughter over the music, although he almost loses it when Yuri drags a hand down the front of his jeans as he exits the booth.

_ Fucking hell.  _ Otabek inhales, exhales, then swipes the last of Yuri’s drink.

He’s going to need it.

 

Yuri watches as Otabek very brusquely passes off his DJ duties to a friend, whose gaze flicks over knowingly. He lounges against the wall by the DJ booth, unashamedly staring at Otabek’s ass. The bass beat of the music has seeped into his bones; he’ll feel it there for hours. He likes it. _.  _

Then Otabek has a hand around his wrist, is dragging him off the dance floor and through a door to the back. His gaze remains firmly forward, but the steel grip on his arm and the tautness of Otabek’s shoulders tell Yuri more than enough. He breathes in the tension, revels in the staccato of their footsteps and the obvious sound of Otabek’s breathing, lets it all fill his lungs and intoxicate him. Every inch of his skin is humming, electric.

Otabek finally comes to a halt outside an unmarked door and shoves Yuri through it without preamble. When the door shuts, without even turning on the light, there is a hot and delicious weight pinning Yuri to the nearby wall. 

“You,” Otabek mutters as he threads his fingers through Yuri’s hair, grips tight, pulls harshly so Yuri’s chin is tilted up and he can bite at those plush lips. “Are  _ infuriating.”  _

Yuri pants, grinning open-mouthed, hands fumbling at the front of Otabek’s jeans. He gets the fly open as Otabek sucks a bruise into his neck; gets his hand down and in as Otabek yanks at his hair to expose more skin. And Yuri is laughing, breathless, as Otabek bites into his shoulder and squeezes his ass  _ hard.  _

“Someone’s all worked up,” he taunts, although it’s marred by a hitch in his breath. Inside Otabek’s pants, his hand twists, slides slow and torturous. Otabek’s only answer is a grunt as his hips jerk forward, his teeth press into Yuri’s throat. Yuri tips his head as far forward as it can go when Otabek still has him by the hair, nips at Otabek’s lower lip.

“That all you got,  _ Daddy?” _

 

Yuri is  _ maddening.  _

Otabek growls, low in his throat, summons the last shreds of his self-control and forces Yuri’s hand out of his pants. The younger man barely has time to protest before he’s flipped around, losing his breath as his chest slams into the wall. After finally flicking on the light, Otabek crowds him, one hand coming up to grip his jaw and pull so that Yuri’s profile is turned to him.

“Such a tease,” he exhales, murmuring the words into Yuri’s hair, right by his ear. He feels Yuri shudder underneath him, feels the harsh breaths being forced out of Yuri’s mouth. Otabek bites at the nape of Yuri’s neck and lets go of his jaw. “Strip,” he commands, soft and steely.

Yuri complies with a smirk. Otabek’s shirt goes first, lifted tantalizingly to reveal the ripped tank top underneath. That gets flicked to some corner of the room for them to deal with later. Next are his boots, kicked to the side with his socks. He takes a tiny foil packet of lube out of one pocket, flicks it at Otabek, who just raises an eyebrow. Then the jeans, so tight they look painted on, leaving nothing to the imagination. Or so Otabek thought, because under that--

Yuri’s cock strains against black lace that sits stark against his pale skin, matching the deep black of the tattoo on his outer thigh. Otabek stares, breathes, feels the heat pool in his groin.

Yuri smirks and slips his thumbs under the lace, tugging them down slowly,  _ slowly--  _

“No.” Otabek moves fast, snatching up Yuri’s wrists and pinning them to the wall on either side of his head. He leans his head by Yuri’s, exhaling against the shell of his ear. “Leave them on.”

Then he’s on his knees, mouth on Yuri’s cock through the lace, wet and messy and starved. He sucks until the lace is damp, until Yuri is leaking, until Yuri’s reduced to hiccupping gasps and hitched cries. The fabric is rough under his tongue, dragging, pressed into Yuri’s skin and heightening the sensations.

“Beka --  _ Beka  _ \-- fuck, Daddy,  _ fuck-k! -- _ ” 

Otabek tugs the boyshorts down under Yuri’s balls, finally licking at bare skin. He sinks teeth into Yuri’s inner thigh, drags his tongue up the underside of Yuri’s cock, and finally -- when Yuri is scrabbling at the wall in desperation -- taking Yuri into his mouth, down and down as far as it will go. And Yuri throws his head back, sobs Otabek’s name, digs his nails into Otabek’s scalp.

Otabek swallows him down and hollows his cheeks, and Yuri is ruined.

Right before Yuri comes, Otabek pulls up and strokes him through the rest, The white stickiness is a pretty contrast to the black lace, makes the fabric cling to Yuri’s cock and pelvis. Makes Otabek hungrier.

He licks a trail back up Yuri’s body, rucking up the tank top as he goes, until he can yank it over Yuri’s head. The minute Yuri’s head is free his lips are on Otabek’s, hot and messy, tongue flicking into his mouth. Meanwhile, behind Yuri’s back, Otabek deftly rips the packet of lube open and slicks his fingers, then presses into that pert little ass.

There’s no teasing, no playfulness. Otabek fucks Yuri open with his fingers, making so that Yuri loses the coordination to kiss, able only to pant wetly against Otabek’s jaw, squirming in the press of his arms. But Otabek is relentless, crooking his fingers and pushing at that spot inside Yuri that makes the younger man muffle his cries in Otabek’s shoulder.

“Beka, Daddy,  _ please,  _ fuck me -- fuck --  _ please,  _ oh god,  _ Daddy, fuck me _ \--”

Otabek withdraws his fingers, sucks one more bruise into Yuri’s shoulder. Then he spins Yuri around again, pressing him up against the wall and hauling his pretty ass backwards. Yuri turns to look at Otabek, all hazy eyes and spit-slicked mouth, a wet and exquisite mess.

Otabek lines his cock up with the crease of Yuri’s ass, skims his hands over slim hips.

“Do you want this?” he asks casually, as if he’s not about to fuck his boyfriend in the break room of the club he works at, with a room packed with strangers on the other side of the corridor. But Yuri, intoxicating and wild and beautiful -- Yuri is too difficult to resist.

“Yes,” Yuri moans, pushing his ass back, using the wall as leverage. Narrowing his eyes, Otabek reaches forward and grabs a fistful of Yuri’s hair, pulls so that Yuri has to arch, bare his throat. He can feel the lace tight around his thighs where it’s pushed down but not off.

“Answer properly, kitten,” he says softly. Yuri lets out a high-pitched whine.

“ _ Yes, Daddy,”  _ he gasps out, “fuck me, please, Daddy,  _ fuck me-- _ ”

Otabek lets go of Yuri’s hair to spread his ass, and sinks in.

 

The thud of the music outside masks the sound of skin on skin and the increasingly loud moans being ripped out of Yuri, but Otabek likes him noisy, likes it when Yuri screams his name as he comes, makes those delicious little moans when Otabek takes him fast. Because every time Yuri teases, flirts with other men, pushes the limits of Otabek’s patience, it’s to get this: Otabek’s hands pressing bruises into his hips, his cock filling Yuri up. It’s  _ good,  _ it’s perfect, it’s everything Yuri wants when he gets turned on watching Otabek look at him across the dance floor from the DJ booth, eyes dark with unrestrained hunger. When Otabek watches him dance with other people, in the sweaty press of bodies, hips like a pendulum and an open invitation:  _ look at me.  _

Then Otabek’s hand is back in his hair, pulling back as his hips press in further, and Yuri lets himself be overwhelmed. He comes a second time with a choked-off gasp and to the feeling of Otabek burying himself to the hilt, hips stuttering as he gets closer. When Otabek does come, it’s with him leaning forward and digging his teeth into Yuri’s shoulder, fingers denting soft flesh and hips flush against Yuri’s ass. Yuri almost slumps under Otabek’s weight; his legs feel like jelly. He still whimpers when Otabek pulls out, a trickle of come spilling down his leg.

They stand there a moment, catching their breath; Yuri slumps against the wall for support. Then careful hands loop around his waist, drawing him back, lifting him up. Otabek presses a soft kiss to his forehead before guiding him to a couch in the back of the room and pulling Yuri into his lap. Huffing, Yuri tucks his head under Otabek’s chin and hums. It makes Otabek chuckle.

“Ah, what do you do to me, kitten,” he murmurs, kissing down Yuri’s hair. In response, Yuri lifts his head and kisses him back, lazy and sweet.

“You like it,” he says cheekily. Otabek snorts, looks up at the ceiling.

“I do.”

(He likes everything.)


End file.
